


Love in Vein

by Dulcinea



Category: Metallica
Genre: 90s, Clubbing, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-07-10 15:29:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15952211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dulcinea/pseuds/Dulcinea
Summary: August 1997. James goes clubbing.





	Love in Vein

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by NIN's Closer, Rammstein's Du Hast, KMFDM's Megalomaniac, Lady GaGa's Monster, and Skinny Puppy's Love in Vein (especially the last one).
> 
> Another old fic.

Skinny, sickly bodies sway under pulsing, changing lights. Some throw their hands in the hot air. Some sing along. Some move to the beat. Some lay dead across pieces of furniture, some clothed, some not. But it doesn't matter if who makes it through the night. As long as the music keeps playing, no one cares. Leather crotches will keep grinding into leather asses. Dilated eyes will keep shining under the turning disco ball. Long fingernails will keep scratching and red lips will keep glistening. They're all high and happy, singing and dancing, moaning and gasping, laughing and fondling, and that's all that matters to them.   
  
The club's like every club he's been to tonight: loud, dark and obnoxious. DJs keep playing the same songs that are all the rage. Nine Inch Nails. KMFDM. Rammstein. Especially Rammstein, the new hit lately, and James is already sick of them, just like he's sick of these fucking people.   
  
He doesn't belong here. They're all in black leather. He's in blue jeans and white tee. They drink from martini glasses. He drinks beer from the bottle. They dance underneath changing lights. He sits on a leather couch. It's so obvious he's the goddamn American oddball in a room of Eurofreaks but they're all too busy fucking on the dance floor to really notice.   
  
It's hard to see, hard to think. The bass is thick and booming, hurting his chest and head. The bass is always thick in clubs, as if turning up the volume is going to make the music better. Maybe the DJ ups the bass so the club throbs and shakes right at its foundation, like the building is a constant second away from coming hard and jizzing all over its inhabitants.   
  
The song changes to a Billie Jean remix. James chugs more beer down to beat back the pain of harder bass beats.   
  
 _Should've said no._  
  
He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth and sinks deeper into the black couch. The bottle rests between his legs.   
  
 _Should've said fuck off. Fuck you. Fucking shit._  
  
His eyes scan the room and the fucking people. It's all the same. Skimpy clothes. Skinny waists. Fake hair. Fake tits. Fake everywhere.   
  
James rubs a hand over his face and sighs.  
  
People scream Billie Jean's chorus in between the moans and groans. The club throbs in time with his headache and his heartbeat.  _Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump._    
  
He grabs the neck of his bottle and drains the rest in a few gulps. When he drops it to the floor, the bottle rolls-bounce-rolls-bounce-rolls-bounce-rolls-hits the side of the couch.   
  
James leans back onto the couch's headrest.   
  
 _You fucking idiot._  
  
People grind. People hump. People vibrate.   
  
His vision vibrates. His body vibrates with the music. The music gets faster and his vision zig-zags back and forth.   
  
He shuts his eyes tightly.   
  
 _What the fuck were you thinking, saying yes? To clubbing of all fucking things?_  
  
His stomach burns in the back of his throat. He wants to throw up. The ceiling is thankfully dark, so he focuses on the nothing there while he centers himself and tunes out this mania suffocating him.  
  
Over and over he replays Lars's words in his mind. Of course you're going to say no James, he had said, you always say no, whatever was I thinking asking you, I know you're going to say no, you always say no. You don't want to party with us, you don't want to give it a chance, how can you hate what you haven't tried, that's so selfish, you're so self-absorbed. Stop being a dick already and come with us, okay, try a few clubs, hang out, have a few drinks, you might like it, huh, you never know unless you try. C'mon James, let's go, c'mon James, it'll be fun, c'mon James, c'mon, c'mon motherfucker, c'mon.  
  
 _Bitch._  
  
He knew Lars knew. He fucking knew Lars knew what he was doing, that Lars was pushing his buttons just right so he could say yes when he wanted to say no. And he still said yes. Like an idiot.  
  
James grimaces. Nine Inch Nails again. The bass gets louder and louder with the people.  
  
Lars promised fun. This wasn't fun. Sitting on couches, drinking himself stupid, getting a headache that's worsened from place to place while Lars and Kirk fucking make out, suck dick and snort coke all night—that wasn't his version of fun at all.   
  
 _What the fuck was I thinking?_  
  
The couch dips besides him.   
  
James glances to the side to see who's trying to ask him for a fuck now.   
  
He smirks.  
  
 _Speaking of the slut devil now._  
  
His hair sticks up in weird places, messy bangs falling into dilated, coked-up green eyes. The eyeliner's smudged, like someone fucked it all up while fucking his throat. He doesn't have that mesh shirt on anymore—either he lost it or someone took it off for him — and his two-sizes too-small leather pants sport some telltale stains.   
  
Lars licks his lips slowly.  
  
"Yo."  
  
James rolls his eyes back to the ceiling.   
  
 _Thump-thump-thump_  goes the bass.   
  
His side's poked once. Twice. Three times in succession. Then his shoulder twice, one-two. Then his bicep, one-two. Pause. One-two. Pause. Poking with the bass beat. One-two, pause, one-two, pause.  
  
Lars's giggles shake the couch.   
  
James shuts his eyes.   
  
Maybe if he looks tired, Lars will go away. Then he can get the fuck out of here. Maybe a miracle will happen and Lars will suggest to leave.   
  
Lars's chin lands on his shoulder. He can feel his breath; smell the vodka on his neck.   
  
"You having fun?"   
  
James says nothing.   
  
 _Go the fuck away. Go fuck around with someone else. Isn't there a dick you need to suck?_  
  
A hand lands on his thigh and grips firm.   
  
Lars giggles again and rubs his cheek into his shoulder.  
  
"C'mon James... I know your awake."  
  
James still says nothing.   
  
Nine Inch Nails pounds its way through the club, through his damn head. The crowd sings and dances along.   
  
Lars leans his head into the crook of his neck. His hand rubs up and down his thigh.   
  
James can smell him. The sex and the cologne. He smells good. He feels good. Lars's heat radiates into his side and it's almost intimate. Almost nice. Almost something he could get used to.  
  
Almost, because James knows better.   
  
They have never truly clicked. James is American. Lars is European. James sings. Lars drums. James likes his whiskey and his cars. Lars likes his martinis and his art. They're not supposed to work. They're not meant to.   
  
 _Then why did we fuck all those times?_  
  
The bass throbs harder. The room spins.   
  
Lars sighs against him.  
  
James bites back a grunt.   
  
 _Gotta get out of here._  
  
He doesn't move. If he gets up and leaves, Lars will make a scene, and he has too big a headache and too small a patience to deal with Lars's bullshit. He'd probably punch Lars and that wouldn't make for a pleasant atmosphere next show. But he needs to go. He has to get out of here. If Lars tries to stop him, he'll throw him off, whatever. It doesn't matter if Lars gets mad at him, if he hurts him in some way, it'll be okay. It'll be forgotten. He'd tell Lars the next day, 'I didn't punch you, okay, stop being all pissy about it,' and it'd take a few weeks or whatever, but they'd get over it. They'd go about their lives like nothing happened. Like he didn't throw Lars into the wall on his way out of the club. Like he didn't throw Lars to the sidewalk as he entered a taxi. Like he didn't throw Lars onto the bed all those times and fucked him stupid.  
  
James squeezes his eyes tighter.   
  
 _Fuck._  
  
Year after year. '90. '91. '92. '93. '94. '95. In hotels. In studios. In the backstage area where people could find them. He never should've done shit. He wouldn't be here if he had stayed away, if he had pushed Lars away. Anything to keep the distance. Anything to make it normal again.  
  
Lars scoots closer to him.   
  
His fingers slowly traced down to James's knee.  
  
They fucked around. He fucked around. Lars fucked everyone in the clubs, like James fucked everyone in the bars. Sex happened like shit happened, and they just happened to fuck each other sometimes in between other people. That was it.   
  
The song changes, the DJ calling out the song name. Something vain by Skinny Puppy. The club vibrates again, the bass in full force. He vibrates again, but breathing hurts worse than before. His chest will probably cave in like his head at this point.  
  
Lars's hand abruptly leaves him.   
  
"You want to leave."   
  
It's a statement, not a question. He's not ordering him to leave or inviting him to go. He states a fact. An obvious fact.  
  
He sounds unhappy though.   
  
The couch shifts besides him. Cool air hits as Lars leaves his side. He hears Lars curse something Danish under his breath.   
  
James says nothing.  
  
The bass thumps, thumps, thumps to the beat. The hissing singer in this song mutters about needles being warm, illusion, pain, pain, pain. Thump. Pain. Thump. Pain.   
  
Lars is quiet. He's never this quiet.   
  
James's opens his eyes into tiny slits, peeking out beside him.  
  
Lars isn't there.   
  
He lifts his head from the couch, blinking a few times, out of surprise, out of pain. His back cracks as he sits up. His eyes scan the crowd. People grind, hump, moan, laugh under the lights to the beat of the music, but he doesn't see Lars. He's not in the crowd. He can't find him anywhere. He's gone. Lars disappeared.   
  
James sighs in relief. He can leave now.   
  
He elbows his way through the crowd. He can't walk around them. There's no goddamn fucking room. Some people protest as he plows through, some giving him evil looks with their ugly eyes, others sneering with their black lips. He disregards them. They don't matter. Time to find the exit. Time to leave. Time to get out and forget. He'll see Lars later and they'll patch up their wounds and it'll be fine as usual.  
  
His blue eyes look over bobbing heads, through crazy hair, under studded chins for the exit.   
  
He can't find it.  
  
James breathes faster.   
  
He spins on his heel, butting into more people. They protest again, but they still dance. They're always dancing, swaying, moving to the beat, to the rhythm, to the bass.   
  
People rub into his sides, grind onto his back. They start to touch, feel his body, grab his skin and his clothes—as if trying to make him one of them.  
  
His stomach twists.  
  
He looks over his shoulder. Looks forward. Looks backwards. Looks above, below, under, over.   
  
There's no sign to direct him. There's no one to help him. He doesn't know these people. They're probably all too high and too drunk to know where the exit is anyway.   
  
He can't find the exit. He can't find the fucking exit.   
  
The bass thumps louder. The lights shine brighter. The music's maniacal, bordering on crazy. It's not fun anymore. This was never fun. It's fucking bordering on the horrific now.   
  
People push into him. People shove into him. They swarm around him, circle around him, a pulse in a vein, throbbing as one.   
  
They're everywhere. They're consuming him. They're eating him alive. He's getting eaten alive. He's getting eaten the fuck alive by these people.   
  
His breathing borders on panic. He can feel it. He can hear it.   
  
These people won't fucking leave him alone.   
  
 _Get out of here._  
  
His frantic blue eyes zero in on an empty corner, a side of a wall shrouded in darkness, and he swims towards it through the sea of swaying bodies like a drowning man scrambling to shore. James finally breathes easier as he slams against the corner, sweat rolling down the sides of his face, down his chin and neck.   
  
"Shit," he pants. He turns around and slams his back against the corner, shaky hand wiping the sweat off his face. "Shit."  
  
He leans his head against the wall as he controls his breathing. Blue eyes search over people's heads, scanning for an exit, for the beginnings of a door. It has to be here somewhere. If only the lights would stop fucking flashing and the bass would stop beating for three goddamn seconds...  
  
His eyes widen.   
  
His jaw drops.   
  
 _No way._  
  
Lars.   
  
Lars is dancing.   
  
Lars is dancing with some blue-haired freak of nature.  
  
He's in the thick of this swarm, right in the middle of the dance floor, dancing with this blue-haired guy covered in piercings and tattoos—some punk wannabe who obviously has no clue who the hell he is dancing with. But that can't be Lars. That can't be the guy he's known since he was seventeen, because his Lars doesn't move his body like that. His Lars doesn't roll his hips like that. His Lars doesn't do shit like arching his neck, grinding his ass, biting his bottom lip and basically having vertical fucking sex in this sea of fucking people with some fucking twenty-year-old blue-haired freak.   
  
He should go. Leave. Get out of here. Find the exit he's looking for and not look back. Fuck Lars. Forget Lars. He doesn't belong here, Lars does. Lars belongs here in that kid's arms.  
  
James can't look away.  
  
The kid lifts a hand from Lars's hip to his chest and rakes his nails down Lars's sternum. Lars arches into the hand, his lips forming a perfect O, a quiet groan. Red welts rise underneath the flickering lights, and the guy trails his lips down, nibbling, teeth shining on Lars's neck. They go down, down, down, as his hand on Lars's chest trails up, up, up, until it stops at his nipple ring and tugs it hard.   
  
James's breath catches as Lars writhes uncontrollably.   
  
His hands twitch at his sides, his mouth dry.   
  
He can't move. He can't look away.  
  
This fucking kid grips Lars's hips, yanks him back so he can grind into his leather ass. He drags his teeth along Lars's ear, close to the lobe, right where James knows Lars likes it, and Lars reacts like James expects, arching his neck with a gasp he can hear from across the room – a choked gasp, a dying man's gasp – his chest heaving, his stomach quivering.  
  
Lars mouths the word  _again._    
  
His dick twitches.  
  
The song changes. The tempo and the beat slow down. The kid scrapes his teeth on that spot of his ear while Lars moans and moves to the music.   
  
Thump. He leans back.   
  
Thump. Against the kid's chest.   
  
Thump. Throws his arms up.   
  
Thump. Behind the kid's neck.   
  
Thump. And he  _moves._  
  
Hips roll in time to a smooth rhythm. One, two, three, four. One roll, two roll, three, four. Grinding, biting his bottom lip, swaying, rolling his neck back, thrusting his hips forward. Slow, keeping tempo, keeping it nice and slow, one, two, three, four, one, two, three, four.  
  
James can't breathe.  
  
Lars is  _glistening._    
  
He glistens from head to toe underneath these flashing lights, torso matted with sweat, parted pink lips, slick with saliva. The gold nipple ring, wet hair, pale face, leather pants, they all glisten, they all shine, all parts that make up a beacon of sex— a slow-moving, glistening, teasing beacon of sex, coaxing anyone to flutter over and touch his web, luring anyone to entangle in his teeth and his lips, wanting someone to sink into his flesh and his ass and be eaten alive.  
  
Lars's fingers dig into blue hair. Both arms quiver.   
  
The bass thumps. The lights flicker.  
  
Leather ass bucks back into leather crotch.  
  
Pink lips tangle in teeth.  
  
And Lars says  _yes._  
  
James moans.  
  
 _Jesus fucking Christ Almighty._  
  
People start to block his view as the song changes again. A harder beat with a fast tempo sends vibrations that worsen his headache, but he doesn't notice. He doesn't care about the people, about the music, his headache. He doesn't even need to see all of Lars. He can still watch his face, watch the kid, watch what happens.   
  
The kid slides a hand up Lars's stomach, heavy sweat trickling over his fingertips. Lars's stretches his torso, flexes his arms and squeezes his hands in blue hair, tilting his neck back onto the kid's shoulder.   
  
White teeth graze down Lars's neck, followed by a pink tongue. Tasting Lars. Taking in the sweat.   
  
Lars grins. Tilts his head to the side.  
  
James quivers.  
  
Teeth scrape Lars's skin. Sink into the side of Lars's neck.   
  
James gasps as Lars does.  
  
Fingers dig into Lars's hair, jerk Lars's neck to the side.   
  
Teeth pull and suck in white skin.   
  
Lars's grin turns into a grimace.   
  
Thump thump. Thump thump.  
  
Fingers jerk blue hair.  
  
Thump thump. Thump thump.  
  
Lars twitches.  
  
Thump thump thump thump.  
  
Lars.   
  
Teeth.   
  
Skin.   
  
Blood.  
  
James sees red.  
  
He vaguely hears the cries of the people on the dance floor, but he doesn't see them. They don't exist. All he sees is flowing red blossoming on marred white skin.   
  
 _Motherfucker._  
  
His large hand lands into the kid's mop of blue hair, and in one fluid motion, he yanks him off Lars's neck and slams him into the ground.   
  
The kid yelps in surprise, in fear. He shuts him up fast, squeezing his hand around his neck and pinning him to the floor.  
  
Scared hazel eyes meet frigid blues.   
  
James leans down until their noses are touching.  
  
"Fuck off boy. He's  _mine._ "

The kid tries to nod his head, tries to say something. James hears the choked whimper, his pierced lips mouthing okay, and he snorts, releasing his neck. He doesn't feel bad as the kid scrambles to his feet and runs away through the crowd like a scalded yellow dog with its tail between his leg.  
  
 _Should dye his hair yellow instead of blue, the prick._  
  
James grins, the best he's felt this whole rotten night. He stands up to check up on Lars, fix the bite—  
  
And he's slapped. Hard.   
  
"What the  _fuck_  was that for, Hetfield?!"   
  
His hand flies up to his burning cheek as his head snaps back up to meet Lars's glare head-on.  
  
"I saw him hurting you, asshole."  
  
Lars dramatically rolls his eyes. "Did it ever occur to you that I  _wanted_  him to do that?"  
  
"Why the fuck would you want that?"  
  
"Because it turns me on!"   
  
James laughs. "Having your neck sucked until you bleed to death is a fucking turn on?"  
  
Lars's lips curl into a snarl. "It's not bleeding to death if it's a little prick, genius."  
  
James glances at the blood still flowing from Lars's neck down his chest. "That says different, dumbfuck."  
  
Lars spits into his hands and wipes away all the blood effortlessly. He glares back at James, hands crossed over his sweaty chest.   
  
"There. Happy now? I'm not fucking hemorrhaging anymore. You can get the fuck out of here like you've been wanting to all goddamn night and I can go back to what I was doing." He snorts and walks past James, shaking his head. "Like always."  
  
He stops Lars from leaving, snatches Lars's bicep in his large hand, twists him around and yanks Lars close to him, chest to chest.   
  
"You're really going to blame this on me?" James sneers into his face. "That I ruined your stupid night?" His fingers tighten around Lars's bicep as his upper lip twitches. "Fuck you Lars. You're the one who fucking invited me. I'm not the one who should be blamed."  
  
Lars shows no fear. He tilts his chin up. Their noses brush. The music is loud, the bass is loud, and the people are everywhere, but he hears Lars loud and clear.   
  
"You could've said no James. But you didn't." Lars chuckles. "You never do." His green eyes glisten, just like the rest of his body, except there is a gleam that guts James hard. "I never do."  
  
Lars yanks his bicep out of James's hand, turns on his heel and bulldozes his way through the crowd. And James watches Lars go.   
  
The words replay in James's mind. Could've said no James. Could've said no. Didn't have to fuck me James. Didn't have to screw me all those times. You shouldn't have done it. I shouldn't have let you done it. Should've said no. Should've said no. Never do though. Never do.  
  
James's hands clench into white-knuckled fists.  
  
He doesn't let Lars get far. Some people fall onto the floor, stumbled into arms and legs and crotches and asses before James catches him again. He grips Lars's wrists, spins his body around and shoves their faces together.   
  
"Fine," James snarls. "Go get fucked again. Go fuck the rest of the club if you haven't by now. Let them bite your fucking neck off for all I goddamn care. Because I'm not going to listen to you fucking cry when you're mugged, raped and murdered by some fucking weirdo. I refuse to be guilty for your fucking mistakes."  
  
He shoves Lars away, pivots on his heel and marches away right through the crowd.   
  
 _Fuck this. Fuck him._  
  
He shouldn't have said yes. He shouldn't even be here. It's all Lars's fault. Not his. It's not fucking his. Lars pesters and prods and provokes until he gets his way, that fucking instigator, and he got his fucking way tonight. Finally got James to go clubbing, but never again. He's done, through. Lars can do whatever the fuck he wants. If something happens, so what. It's not his goddamn fault.   
  
Fuck Lars. Fuck him. Fuck him for instigating this. Fuck him for bringing up that shit. Fuck him for being some little scorned bitch, an ungrateful bitch, dancing with some kid ten years younger than himself. Whatever happens tonight is on Lars, not him—  
  
And he's shoved head first into mini-skirts, fishnets and black lipstick.  
  
" _Fuck!_ "  
  
They tumble to the floor, James landing on top of them. People cry out, stop dancing. Some pull James up to his feet, others help fellow clubbers to theirs, while the rest shout at the one who did this, the one who shoved him from behind. He already knows who it is as he turns around and meets angry green eyes.  
  
Lars yanks him forward, fists his hands into James's white shirt. He snarls between gritted white teeth, lips twitching, body trembling.  
  
"There you go again. There you  _fucking_  go, leaving everything behind." Lars snorts. "Fucking typical." He smirks. "I already know what you're going to do the rest of tonight. You'll go back to the hotel, drink yourself stupid, crawl right into bed and next thing tomorrow morning, it's all forgotten. Right? Whatever happened last night is last night. It's not your concern anymore is it?" He laughs. "Same old fucking song and dance."   
  
James's fists shake by his sides.  
  
Heavy-lidded green eyes judge him through sooty lashes.   
  
"You're never going to change, are you Hetfield?"   
  
James's upper lip twitches.  
  
Lars raises his nose and chin up.   
  
"You're never going to change because you can't face it."   
  
James's teeth chatter.  
  
Lars clicks his tongue.   
  
"Because you can't admit it."   
  
Their noses push together as Lars shoves into his face.  
  
"And you never will because you're a fucking  _pussy!_ "  
  
His hands shoot out, stranglehold Lars's slim shoulders. He yanks Lars forward, jerks them together, glares down right at him and defiant green eyes glare right back, unafraid.   
  
Their lips are set into thin lines, their jaws squared. James's nails dig into his skin, bruising him, hurting him, but Lars doesn't wince, doesn't show any other emotion but anger.   
  
The bass pounds through the club.   
  
His head hurts.  
  
Lars stays perfectly still.   
  
 _You bitch._  
  
James grinds his teeth.   
  
 _You goddamn fucking bitch._  
  
The room sways, pulses and throbs while the people gel, mold and absorb. The chaos increases. The song changes. The lights flicker faster. The beat goes faster.   
  
His head pounds. His heart pounds.   
  
That bass. That fucking bass.  
  
Lars is an anchor. He doesn't move. He doesn't flinch.   
  
He's not afraid.   
  
James's arms shake Lars.  
  
 _You instigating, cocksucking, son of a—_  
  
He kisses Lars.  
  
Their lips mesh together as tongues battle for control. James doesn't back down. Lars doesn't back down. They fight with their mouths.   
  
His hands squeeze Lars's shoulders painfully, pulling him upwards, but Lars doesn't whimper. He growls feral into James's mouth, thrusts his hips up, slides his hands under James's leather jacket and shoves it off. His nails scrape down his back, pulling at his white tank, almost ripping it off. His hips roll and grind into James's crotch, moving to the beat again, as his teeth scrape across James's lower lip.  
  
He bites down.  
  
James gasps.   
  
His strong hands slip down Lars's sweaty, naked back. And they bite down too. They squeeze Lars's ass so hard the leather squeaks and wrinkles around his fingers. And Lars releases his lip to gasp and shiver.  
  
Their eyes meet as the song changes tempo again.  
  
They smirk.  
  
Strobe lights go off.   
  
Lars sinks his teeth over James's upper lip, sucking it in as he circles his hips. His pants are louder than the music, hotter than the club. James can smell the vodka breath, the scent of sex, taste it on his tongue.  
  
He lets one hand leave Lars's ass for his back.  
  
His nails claw down.   
  
Lars arches his back, juts his hips up, gasps the way James likes it: like a dying man choking on his own breath, desperate for help.  
  
He chuckles.   
  
 _Take that._  
  
Lars's fingers dig into his shoulders. The teeth in his upper lip leave for the lower one. James moans as Lars sucks it in again—  
  
And jerks his head away.  
  
James yelps loudly, shoving Lars back, stepping away from him. His mouth pulses, bottom lip throbbing as warm blood trickles down.  
  
He's bleeding. He can taste it. His tongue darts out to measure the cut and his blue eyes widen at how deep it is.   
  
Lars nearly ripped his goddamn lip off.   
  
James snarls.  
  
 _Fucker._  
  
His arms shoot out for Lars but he misses him. Lars snakes away from him, sneaking out into the pulsing sea of black, and he goes after him.   
  
He instantly regrets the decision. The strobe lights hurt his eyes, the forgotten headache returning full force. It's hard to see, hard to move, hard to breathe with all these people. The music reaches a pulsing climax, the people swarm around him as one and the old panic from before rises again as he stands in the middle of the dance floor without a way out, no exit he knows of, no wall nearby to swim to.   
  
The bass pounds and the lights shine. The music goes crazy like the people go crazy, shouting, screaming, crying out, and he has to get out, fuck this, he has to get out—  
  
Strong arms slip around his waist, turn him around.   
  
Hips grind into his. Lips fall onto his cheek.   
  
The strobe lights stop.   
  
People clap wildly.  
  
Dark chuckles spill into his ear.  
  
"Don't worry James."  
  
Hands slide down his back.  
  
Fingers slip beneath the waistband of his jeans.  
  
Lars licks his cheek.  
  
"I'm right here."  
  
One hand leaves James's back.   
  
Lars grabs James's hand—plants it on his own ass. Forces James to grab it hard.  
  
Hips thrust and roll.  
  
James chokes out a groan.  
  
Lars chuckles.  
  
He snatches up James's other hand and rests it on his waist. Makes James grip it as hard as his ass, his hips still rolling without a beat.  
  
James can't breathe.  
  
Lars is hard. He can feel it, those hips moving, grinding, rubbing him in front of all these people, surrounded by all these people, and none of them seem to notice or care. He could come right there on the dance floor, in Lars's arms, with a big fucking shout, and they'd still be too engrossed in the music and each other to listen.   
  
He hiccups a moan.  
  
 _Stop..._  
  
Lars slides a hand underneath his sticky white tank, rubbing the small of his back in tandem with his hips.  
  
James whimpers.  
  
Green eyes quietly watch him.  
  
He strokes James's sweaty bicep in his other hand.  
  
Fingers grope the underside.   
  
James closes his eyes, trembling.  
  
"Oh..."  
  
And Lars slowly licks his smiling lips.  
  
The DJ announces another title. The German crowd goes wild.   
  
Lars wraps his arms around James's neck.  
  
The song starts up.  
  
He leans forward.  
  
The lights dim again.  
  
Lars whispers louder than the music.  
  
"C'mon James."  
  
Noses brush.  
  
Their lips touch.  
  
"Fuck me."  
  
Lars takes control. He twists around, presses his ass to James's crotch, grabs James's hands from behind and plants them on his hips. He throws his hands behind James's head, a hand digging into James's hair, a hand clasping James's sweaty neck, and he slithers like a snake – slithers up, slithers down, rolling his hips and rolling his head.   
  
He moves to the rhythm, to the bass beat, in tempo, keeping time. His hips roll, sway, grind and thrust. His hands run through James's sweaty hair, pull on the roots, slide down and rake nails over his skin.   
  
And James can't move. He's frozen stiff as Lars fucks against him on the dance floor.   
  
Lars snaps his neck back onto the crook of his neck, his lips parted, his breathing erratic. He grinds his ass deeper into James, rubs his naked back against James's chest, sucks his bottom lip in and bites down hard enough to split it open.  
  
It's the same thing he was doing with that kid earlier.   
  
The same moves. The same position. Lars dancing. Lars grinding. Lars writhing, sighing, moaning and dancing, to the beat, to the tempo. Slow hips. Slow motions.  
  
Lars knows what he's doing.  
  
 _Fuck._  
  
The closed eyes, the nipple ring, the parted lips. The sweat on his forehead, the sweat on his nose, the sweat on his chest. The leather pants, the bite on his neck, the music.  
  
James shivers.   
  
His hands slide up Lars's hips to his sweaty torso, fingers deliberately brushing over his nipples.  
  
Lars gasps.  
  
The nipples pebble under his fingertips.  
  
His hands smooth over chest hair matted down by sweat.   
  
Lars arches into the touch.  
  
One arm snakes around Lars's waist. The other slips down his side.  
  
His fingers bruise Lars's skin.  
  
Lars moans, bucks his ass into James's crotch.   
  
And then James  _moves._  
  
He rolls his hips, rubs his crotch against Lars's ass hard enough so Lars can feel the bulge through the leather, feel it between his ass cheeks. Lars thrusts back, matches his rhythm, and soon they're in harmony, like they're on stage again, playing to each other, anticipating the cues and reacting on instinct. But there's no instruments blocking their way, and a rail doesn't hold the crowd back. The crowd consumes them. Surrounds them. And yet the crowd doesn't notice they're there. They've become one of them, part of the scene, just some other couple getting dirty in the club. It's different. It's more. They're fucking on the dance floor, and no one gives a shit.   
  
James chuckles into Lars's ear.  
  
He slides a hand to Lars's crotch and squeezes.   
  
Lars chokes on his next breath.  
  
He thrusts into Lars's ass, leather crotch squeaking over leather pants. He massages Lars's dick in his large hand, raking the other across Lars's sweaty torso, red welts rising in his wake, until his nails clink against the nipple ring. He pulls at it, tugs it while his neck dips, lips brushing the drying, bloody bite. And he stays in tempo. He keeps time.  
  
"This what you want?"  
  
His teeth scrape the bite.  
  
He thrusts hard into Lars.  
  
Lars whines.   
  
James licks the bite.  
  
"Tell me."  
  
The song changes.   
  
Lars slaps a hand over James's on his crotch.   
  
He tilts his head up, squeezes James's hand over himself.  
  
His teeth sink into James's chin.  
  
James growls.   
  
Lars pulls away, licking the skin.  
  
He yanks James's hand off himself and twines their fingers together, sweaty palm on sweaty palm.   
  
Lars smirks.  
  
"Follow me."  
  
Lars pulls James through the pulsing crowd, squeezing in and out between bodies tall and short, fat and thin, round and weird. The lights cascade shades of red, bathing the room in blood—bathing Lars in blood.  
  
Green eyes stand out against the red.   
  
James falls into a haze, hypnotized by the lights, by those eyes. His head swims and sinks, trickles down his nose into his throat, while the club blurs around him, fogs up like hot breath on cold glass.   
  
Lars stays in focus, leading him away, tugging him forward in the black-red sea of sweat and skin.   
  
Only Lars.  
  
 _I must be drunk._  
  
It gets easier to breathe the closer they reach the farthest corner of the club. Lars leads to a room he didn't see before—couldn't see really, what with all these people blocking his way. He groans, shakes his head as the club fuzzes in and out like static, but Lars keeps him moving, keeps him going forward, until he squeezes through the last two people and steps into the darkness.   
  
He takes in a deep breath of cooler air. He still feels heavy and dizzy, but he is free. He's out.  
  
Lars jerks him further into the darkness.  
  
"C'mon."  
  
James stumbles behind him. "Wait."  
  
"C'mon, James." He sounds like a petulant child not getting his way again. "Come  _on._ "  
  
"I'm right fucking here."  
  
Lars giggles.   
  
James rolls his eyes. He can't see anything. The club exists beyond a narrow doorway, an industrial modern day Wonderland he didn't want to return to. But the white rabbit is here, taking him elsewhere, and he wonders for a moment why he hadn't walked away yet.   
  
He's quickly reminded when Lars jerks open a door and shoves him into a dirty bathroom.   
  
The door slams when his back slams on the wall, his head bouncing off. Cool tile on his hot skin has him in shivers before Lars's tongue slips into his mouth. He briefly opens his eyes – smiling green eyes waited for him – and they flutter shut with a moan.   
  
Hands dug into his pants, into his briefs, grabbed his dick and squeezed. He jerked up and moaned, clutched Lars's biceps for balance. It was 92 again. 93. 94. All the years before rushed into the present.  
  
Lars knew what he liked. He learned well.  
  
The sound of the zipper falling outweighs the muffled music outside. Low bass notes vibrate the floor and the walls, the fluorescent overhead flickering to the beat – another strobe light that hurts his eyes. His ears buzz and his head spins as his pants are shoved to his knees, Lars pulling out of his grip and falling to his own. Palms slide down his naked thighs, back up to his balls, cup them, squeeze them, warm breath blowing the tip of his cock, and he can't follow along with Lars anymore. He's too tired and too drunk to stop and ask questions.  
  
His hands anchor into Lars's hair, his head lolling forward.   
  
"Do it."  
  
He groans as Lars takes him in with ease.  
  
It's like before—better than before. Lars gives his balls a good massage as his tongue works on his shaft, licking and circling, bobbing his head to get it all. He rubs his quivering stomach, thumbs his bellybutton, muffle-moans around his dick and James moans back, thrusting into his mouth until they make a rhythm. But they can get caught this time. They can be found. Someone can open the door. Someone can walk in to take a piss and find some boy slut on his knees sucking off his john—and then want a piece of the action. Or he'd know their faces. Know who they are. And then what? What can motormouth Ulrich do to save them? Use his mouth again. Hurt his knees again. Suck the guy into silence. Gag him with money. Like a whore. Like he's sure Lars did as he sucked and fucked everyone tonight. Don't say anything and I'll make your night. I'll take you to a room and do things with my tongue you'll remember forever. Come with me, he'd say as he fingers a pussy, strokes a dick, bites down on lips and murmurs on sweaty skin. Come with me. Trust me. C'mon. C'mon, motherfucker. Come  _on._  
  
James whines as he comes.  
  
Lars buries his face into his crotch and sucks him down.  
  
Choked whimpers bleed from his dry lips as Lars licks him clean, pulling away with a loud pop that echoes off the tiled walls. His hands release Lars's head, hang limp by his sides. He fights for breath, legs vibrating like the bass beat, and his body gives out on him, sliding down the tile down to his bare ass.   
  
 _Fuck._  
  
Lars chuckles. "Out already? You must've wanted it bad."  
  
 _Fuck you._  James tilts his head up, lips parting wide.   
  
The chuckles stop. A long pause follows.   
  
Then Lars whispers, "You really  _do_  want it."  
  
James grabs Lars's leather ass in response.   
  
He hears his zipper go down. Lars isn't teasing tonight—not as much as before. Leather flaps soon kiss his cheeks, followed by strong fingers sinking deep into his hair. He peeks through his eyelashes and sees red-faced Lars staring down, hand on the base of his dick, guiding it forward.  
  
"Go on. Take it."  
  
James lets his tongue out as Lars slips into his mouth.   
  
He leans in, shuts his eyes and closes his lips around his cock. His tongue works like Lars's did, but he sucks him all in, down to the root, nose pressing into pubic hair and hands squeezing into leather. He bruises and massages his ass, swallows and moans around him, focusing on what he knows Lars like, just as Lars did. And Lars falls for it. He hears forearms slamming into the tile, Lars's loud, "Kneppe!" followed by his guttural moan. He peeks again and moans at what he sees – Lars bent at the waist, hips thrusting into him, face pained, eyes shut, sweat dripping from his chin.   
  
"Fuck me James…"  
  
Lars jerks on his hair. James watches and feels him tremor.  
  
His breathing picks up with the pace of his thrusts. Whimpers spill from his red lips, the nipple-ring swinging above, taunting him.  
  
"Fuck me please…"  
  
He grips the leather and pulls the pants down over Lars's bucking ass. His palms slide up and squeeze the bruised skin, leaving more marks, more imprints of his fingers. And Lars squeals, fucks his mouth faster and rests his forehead on the tiled wall, spreading his legs as wide as he can.   
  
"C'mon."   
  
His finger slips easily into his ass.   
  
Lars groans, squeezes around him. "Yes… yes…"  
  
He fucks his ass, wet and stretched already from previous use. Fucks him with his finger as Lars fucks his mouth.   
  
They make a new rhythm. Change the beat. Lars gasps as he bucks back, moans as he thrusts forward. James goes with him, moves with him, slips another finger inside and crooks them. He finds his spot and presses down, massaging, rubbing, until he feels Lars swell in his mouth and hears Lars groan above him.  
  
"Oh God… that's it…  _that's it…!_ "   
  
Lars squeals again. He presses Lars close when he tastes come on his tongue. Keeps him there, crotch to face, and swallows him down, just as Lars did to him.   
  
He pulls away when Lars softens in his mouth. Lets his cock slowly slip from his lips, tongue licking the sensitive tip. Lars shivers, pulls on his hair, his silent plea for no more. He can hear him fight for his breathe too, like he did before, and James licks his lips, looking up.   
  
Blank green eyes match wide parted lips. His face glistens like his torso and his thighs, glistens like he did on the dance floor all night. But he sports no smug smirk, no big grin. Lars gapes down at him a whipped man—a whipped boy.   
  
 _All mine._  
  
He thrusts his fingers lazily in and out of his ass.   
  
Lars twitches and gasps.  
  
He scissors them, circles them around. Thumbs his perineum beneath his balls as he presses his prostate again.  
  
Lars moans low.   
  
James leans up. Licks some sweat off his stomach.   
  
Lars tilts his hips.  
  
He thrusts his fingers faster. Makes a different rhythm for Lars to follow, and Lars does, chewing on his bottom lip, tugging it between his teeth, bouncing back into his hand, his soft cock swinging in front of him.  
  
"James…" He closes his eyes, his head lolling forward. "Oh James…"  
  
The hand in his hair unfurls, smoothes out.   
  
"Jaaames…"  
  
Blue eyes flutter shut.  
  
Fingers slide down and cup his neck, bringing him to his stomach. James grips his hip in his free hand to balance, to hold Lars in place. He kisses and licks the sweat on his skin from stomach to thigh, cock rubbing his cheek, leaving wet trails of his saliva in his wake.   
  
Lars's hands drift up to pet and play with his hair.  
  
James grazes his teeth along the juncture of his thigh.   
  
The muscles flex. The thigh shakes.  
  
Blue eyes glance up at hooded green eyes.  
  
Lars stares at him like a lifeless doll.  
  
"More…"   
  
James shivers.  
  
He thrusts his fingers faster, aiming right at his spot. His dick twitches at Lars's sharp gasp, widened eyes, the small choked moan after. Hips move faster, follow his pace, his chin bumping into Lars's thigh, the cock on his cheek stirring to life again.   
  
His fingers still inside Lars.   
  
Lars whines, bows back, twists his hands into his hair.  
  
He watches Lars fuck himself on his fingers.   
  
 _You're mine._  
  
James slips his fingers out. Moans when Lars yanks on his hair, whimpering, pleading noises slipping from his lips.   
  
His hands grip Lars's waist, bruising more skin.  
  
 _I'm gonna make you mine._  
  
He jerks Lars down into his lap. And Lars follows. Falls to his knees. Straddles his waist. Wraps his arms around his neck. Their stiffening cocks meet, grind and rub, as their tongues touch and slip, mouths meshing as one.  
  
His nails rake down Lars's back, mark up more his skin. Makes red welts all the way down to his ass and slaps it before he grabs it.   
  
He eats Lars's moan.  
  
The kiss gets sloppy. Lars is a shivering wreck in his arms. He clings to James, whimper-moaning, rubbing and grinding his dick, but there's no rhythm to his hips anymore. He has no tempo. His beat's chaotic, uneven, all matching his frantic breathing. He doesn't know what he's doing anymore.  
  
Lars finally lost control.  
  
 _Yes._  
  
James grabs his shoulders, breaks the kiss. He shoves Lars away, pushes him onto his back. Manipulates his body the way he wants: all fours, legs spread, leather pants bunched up around his knees, bare ass exposed, waiting for him.  
  
He spits into his hand, coats his dick.  
  
Lars lifts his ass up, presses his forehead to the dirty floor.  
  
"Kom nu… kom nu…"  
  
He bucks his hips back.  
  
James licks his lips.   
  
Lars whines, "Kom  _nu._ " He lies on his forearms, raising his ass further up. "Kom nu, James."  
  
He strokes his dick, watching Lars roll his hips, slip a hand between his thighs and touch himself. Watches him move, watches his hand move, his hips move. Watches Lars turn into a needy whore, for him.  
  
"Kom nu..."  
  
James scoots forward on his knees. Rests a hand on an ass cheek. Spreads it to the side, exposing his hole.  
  
Lars moans like a whore.  
  
"Ja..."  
  
 _My whore._  
  
He guides his dick inside.  
  
Lars whimpers, " _Hnngh,_ " and slides back onto him.  
  
James groans as he fills Lars, hands slapping onto his back. He bows his neck, catching his breath.   
  
His control slips as Lars fucks himself on his cock.   
  
He grips his hips firm, stilling his motions. Ignores Lars's whine and waits until he calms down—until he gives in again.  
  
And then Lars kneels up, grabs his head and shoves their lips together.  
  
It's a quick kiss. A rough kiss. His control slips further as he loses himself in a whirlwind of tongue and teeth, and he breaks the hold Lars has on him with a jerk to his nipple ring, hard enough to cause pain.  
  
Lars breaks away. James's mouth pulses from the onslaught.   
  
Warm breath still falls over his lips.   
  
Their heavy-lidded eyes meet, darkened blue on darkened green.  
  
They stare at each other. Measure each other. Gaze at their reflections.   
  
Lars darts his tongue out to lick James's cheek.  
  
"Kom nu."  
  
His ass squeezes around James's cock.  
  
Lars hisses into his face.  
  
"Få mig til at skrige."  
  
James growls back.  
  
He shoves Lars onto his chest, grips his hips firm and fucks him. Fucks him hard and fast, balls slapping his ass, pounding him down face-first, and Lars takes it, moaning, squealing, meeting every rough thrust, yelling in Danish, right into the floor.   
  
They fuck off-tempo. No rhythm set, no solid beat. They're lost, focused on themselves, on the pleasure. They forget where they are. Forget the noise, the people outside, the potential of getting caught as their moans bounce off the hollowed tiled walls. All they care about is themselves and the burn that clouds their minds and engulfs their bodies, a burn ready to explode and consume them both.   
  
Lars bows his back. Presses the side of his face into the floor and gasps for air as he jerks himself off faster.   
  
"H-Hårdere."  
  
James moans. He obeys, squeezing Lars's hip, redoubling his efforts.  
  
Lars gasps, his cheek skidding across the floor. He folds an arm over his head, pulls and tugs at his own hair. Teeth grind, hisses and grunts spilling out, and he groans, opening his eyes.   
  
"Hårdere."  
  
Green eyes look at him. And James stares back—seeing the lust, the need, the fucking  _need_ , all for him.  
  
" _Hårdere._ "  
  
Lars squeezes his eyes shut and yells.   
  
"Få mig til at  _skrige!_ "  
  
His hips move faster. The burn from his belly rises, takes control of his body. He watches Lars cry out, rub his chest on the tiled floor, claw at his own hair, jerk himself off, shake and tremble into pieces. He sees Lars cry his name, hears it over the sound of their fucking. He can taste him on his tongue still, smell his precome in the air, feel his orgasm draw near. He won't be quiet. He's going to scream. Lars is going to scream. All because of him.   
  
James throws his head back and roars.   
  
He falls into instincts, submits to pleasure, forgoes thought. He feels heat, feels Lars, feels the burn inside waiting to erupt. It's too much. Too great. He can't last any longer. He can't—  
  
And then Lars screams his name.  
  
James shouts Lars's name soon after.  
  
He falls into a world of white bliss for a few moments, back arched, head thrown back, face twisted up, stilled inside Lars. And then his body gives out on him. The pleasure subsides. He bows over Lars's back, panting for breath, blood rushing through his head, as he comes down from his most intense orgasm yet.   
  
Beneath him, Lars shivers and whimpers, his hand flopping down from his spent cock to the floor. Some Danish and English words spill out that James can't really discern, and they soon peter out into harsh breathing. His red-face glistens with sweat like the rest of his marred body, his blank eyes staring out at nothing, blinking slowly. Exhausted doesn't cover how he looks. He's depleted, the life sucked and fucked out of him. Almost dead.  
  
 _Fuck yeah._  
  
James slumps on top of Lars, closing his eyes. He wraps his arms around Lars's shoulders and brings him up into a kneeling position, pressing Lars's back to his chest. His mouth latches onto Lars's neck, kissing, licking, lightly biting the marked skin again. He makes a path to Lars's cheek, doing the same as before, and then goes to his lips, kissing him gently.   
  
Lars responds weak. Moans into James's mouth, tries to kiss back, but he doesn't have the strength to keep it up. His head eventually tips down and away, lolling to the side, and James nuzzles the exposed skin of his neck with his lips and his nose.   
  
His fingers tilt Lars's head to him. Takes in up his sweaty face, his parted lips, his heavy breathing. He's been here time and again, holding Lars like this, looking at him like this, and he can do the same as he's done before: shut up and leave, sweep it under the carpet, forget it ever happen and move on with his life. It'll come up again sometime in a month or two, maybe longer, maybe sooner, and they'll have the whole blow up again, leading into more hot sex, more bad blood, more things said and unsaid. Maybe that time he won't find Lars with one guy. Maybe he'll find him with two or three. Lars has free reign to fuck whomever, like he did tonight. So does James. That's the set up, the standard they have, since 1990. They fuck whomever, and they can fuck each other, when they feel like it. But James knows Lars does whatever and whomever he wants to get what he  _really_  wants—to get him, to get them to the point they're at now, until they start it again.   
  
His softening cock slips out of Lars's well-fucked ass and he drinks Lars's weak moan in another gentle kiss. He draws it out, coaxes another weak moan before he brushes their lips together.   
  
 _I'm too old for this._  
  
"Let's go."  
  
He pulls away, waits for Lars's eyes to open. When they do, James meets the confusion and wariness full on.  
  
Lars frowns. "To what? A bar?"  
  
James shakes his head no.   
  
"Then where?"  
  
"Anywhere."  
  
"So we'll find another club."  
  
"No."  
  
"You said anywhere."  
  
He rubs the bite scab on Lars's shoulder with his thumb. Watches Lars wince and he instantly stops. He sighs and leans in, pressing his lips to Lars's cheek as he whispers.   
  
"Alone."  
  
Lars shivers. "James."  
  
He ignores the warning in Lars's voice and listens to the want instead. He gives him another kiss to his cheek, trails down to his neck and plants another kiss over one of the hickeys he made.   
  
"Please."  
  
Lars sighs. "You sure?"  
  
"Mhm."  
  
Fingers slide up his cheek into his hair, weaving into his wet strands. Lars relaxes in his embrace, leans back onto his chest and tilts his head forward, giving him more room – giving him permission.  
  
"Okay."  
  
He thanks him in kisses and licks, the way they're used to talking. But when he takes Lars out of this place to his hotel room, it won't be the usual waiting for them both. They'll fuck again most likely, but after that, it'll be different. It'll be a start. And it won't be obvious, but Lars is smart enough to catch his subtleties.  
  
James pushes the fear, the what-if's and the maybe's at bay, as he helps Lars to his feet. They freshen up, splashing water on their faces, tucking in and zipping up again, before Lars guides James out of the bathroom to the side exit.  
  
Some remix of the Backstreet Boys blasts on the PA when they leave the club. He catches a glimpse of the people moving and dancing, humping and thumping, lying across everything and everyone, but they stop existing beyond the wall of the club. The sea of black-red and their ugly strobe lights stay inside their prison, while James breathes freedom in cool night air.   
  
Lars wraps an arm around his waist. "That wasn't so bad, huh?"  
  
James glares down at him.  
  
Lars grins.   
  
They say nothing else as they walk down the alleyway to the streets, where James hails down a taxicab to take them home.


End file.
